Melodical Enslavement
by BasiliskPrince
Summary: A king with boredom? A phantom with sorrow? Sounds like the perfect opportunity for some mischief to me! Jareth encounters Erik and kidnaps him away to the Labyrinth.
1. Chapter 1: Desolate Melody

_**Disclaimer which wasn't there before but is now so my butt won't be sued: **__All the characters, worlds and things belong to someone one else. I'm pretty sure that I'm not the first to think of Jareth x Erik either…but I am one of the few who wrote a fan fic on for it…so gotta give me props there right? Anyways, don't sue me. I don't have anything except pocket lint and you can make your own pocket lint so what's the point, right? Right!_

**Chapter One:** The Desolate Melody

"_Only then…can you belong to me…"_

The teardrops would not dissolve into the melody even as they slipped down the curves of his face and splashed themselves against pressed piano keys. His ebony gloves skipped over the teardrops; afraid of the curse that could be laid on his fingertips should they touch a single teardrop devoted to Christine….Oh, _Christine. _

The child in a young woman, searching in vain for some substantial hold on her father's lost soul. His last chance for a single and solitary hold on humanity…but it was all for naught. Every touch, every kiss, every word, and every encouragement could not keep him from betrayal. It could not keep her from fear...a fear that was natural to a physical monstrosity such as him.

Slamming his claw-shaped hands onto the unsuspecting keys, he threw out all of his repressed rage in one single scream of instrumental mortification. Time had made it safe for him to return within his home…and time had healed most wounds except the glass shards deeply impacted in his heart for her and for the deep scar-tissue that rested over his abysmal face… Those could never be healed.

Now, he lurked deep within the corridors…content to hide from the stares that he had surrounded himself in days prior. Hoping to find the reprieve of the world that Christine's final kiss had promised him...he had amassed himself in faces…a sea of them and with no cover from their horrified expressions. No mask to cover his abnormality…and he had soon found that it was much the same as reliving the night in the opera house when Christine had ripped away all forms of sanctuary he had in his breast…on his face. The discolored and corrupt skin…the non-existent eyebrow…sights that no one wished to see. These sights disgusted the greater part of Paris. Yes, he'd heard the high pitched screams of many women, walking down the streets of Paris consorting with their offspring or wearing the must-haves of the season…gasps from men with business suits and briefcases, so prepared to shove the same self-flattering attitudes towards anyone who would listen to the drivel, and the odd wonder from children who were anxious to poke and prod and laugh at anything so unimaginable in their close-knit minds. Yes, he had suffered through the unpleasant situations in hopes of finding another Christine and he had isolated himself far worse than ever before…he knew that it was an impossible obstacle now to fit in among normalcy.

So, he retreated back to what he knew…the reflective surfaces, draw-back curtains, the swan shaped marble bed, and the piano over the murky lake…a home for an over-sensitive savage fool. Even as he let his soul sing in reminiscence of her petite form, he could not help but denote that the world had fallen far more out of his favor than he'd ever imagined. He could not help but think the point of no return had more than pointed by rather stabbed into his heart and let him bleed for her…for his Christine. Now, with the moonlight cast over the murky aquatic surface and his fingers striving to portray the same essence of love and elegance that once drove him to make a violinist's daughter into a diva…he realized that even his music might suffer after the loss of Miss Daee.

Slipping from the instrument that contained his bitter gloom, he allowed his ebony coated body to slink through the shadows and past the drawn curtain until he was far from the upturned shrine that once contained everything he saw in his and Christine's future. The tossed about wedding garments, once rested on a mannequin, were a vicious poison that ripped at his veins whenever his dark eyes tasted the sight of that fragmented dream. The small dolls and the small replica of the opera house were all smashed shortly after the mob had tossed about his belongings…and his mask, the shield from the world's harsh reactions, was stolen back from the masses shortly after he had returned. He had no intention of letting the little ballerina girl hold onto his mask…the little blonde stranded doll was but a sister to Christine in everything but blood. Christine…whose hair draped over the silk bedding and pillowcases that he now lay upon…wishing her scent still fell over them in a hypnotic wave but nothing was there. She was but a ghost…a dead notion whose name was always on the tip of his tongue. She, who was once his love and obsession, was now the curse that would drive him to the brinks of insanity.

As he settled himself upon the son pillows and the bedding, he reflected on the world around him. The dark cave-like walls, the draperies, and the chandelier he had smashed in upper Opera House, box 5 that was dictated to be only his…and yet Raoul had set his foot in it. Just like he had laid his hand on Christine…It was obvious now that the music of the night might have been over, but his hell had just begun.


	2. Chapter 2: An Empty Stage

Disclaimer: Recap, I don't own Jareth or Erik or any of it. All I have is a kitty furball…you may purchase it on ebay if you really want it. It is 20,000 US dollars…or 50,000 doll hairs! Anyways, don't sue me. I've got nothing.

**Chapter Two: **An Empty Stage

The night had not been fruitful for anything other than the stray tears that would fall despite his protest. The countenance of rage stemmed through his veins but there was no winded scream, no fisted fingertips, and no hanging bodies gathered around the upper levels of the Grand Opera house. There was only disturbing silence…the sound of unmitigated isolation.

His returning reign had broke terror to an unsuspecting crowd, gathering back to their superstitions that he was far more than just a man. All the doubts that Christine had brought were downcast by his pre-emptive return. The Opera House was closed in a fort night, and the foolish Neanderthals that called themselves owners had fled back to the business that they belonged…slick and disgusting drudging of oil. It was obvious that the only ones that had truly had any place in the Opera House had gone down with the sinking ship. Mademoiselle Meg Giri's last performance had been within the Opera house…but even she was hardly together without the misguided innocent known as Christine.

In his nightly assault of the upper halls, he heard not even a breath's whisper. No one had set foot within the closed doors and the shattered pieces of chandelier still decorated the front rows of the audience's seating. His footwear did not betray his steps, though there was no one to betray it to, and he stepped silently from his prison that hosted the murky thoughts of his mind. Instead he had visions of the same horrors that braced his youth, stole his adulthood, and banished his dreams.

He stood himself upon the stage…reminiscing of the moment when the false flames rose high against Christine's flesh. When seduction had reached its peak and he had gathered her to her…hoping to seduce all childish fancy she might feel for Raoul with his persistent passion. The seats had been packed with high society snobbery and insolence at that time but now not even a true apparition would wish to flock to its confines. It was an empty shell of its former glory…an empty and bitter shell but it was his. The flourish of his cloak sounded and he allowed his brow to knit in consternation.

"Those insolent fools thought that legality would stop my claim. That their income would outweigh my word…I who had dwelled there for longer than they had sights for Opera….a large retainer for their efforts…instead their great wealth smashed and embedded it's crystal shards in each seat…and yet," he brought his eyes to scour out the darkness, the shadows, and the emptiness of the large stage room. "And yet…they do not bask in isolation…they are free from their bonds of slavery; but what of moi? Oh, not I. Not I, great Monsieur! I am indebted to a scrap of clothing, and a cave that will surely hide my from the world…but if only…If only a wish could be granted…Then surely my bonds would be broken…and Christine…Christine would wish my guidance, my protection, ….and my love. Wishes are for fools…and yet I stand here, speaking to an empty room….and condemn the last scrap of hope that might exist for me. I wish…I wish to belong to someone, to something greater than an empty and broken-down establishment. I wish to belong…" And with that outcry, he had fallen to his knees in anguish, one hand grasping onto the porcelain shield that covered his façade.

_I wish to belong to someone. _

And in that giant room, with vaulted ceilings ripped asunder and destroyed seating, kneeled a man brought down by his grief and forced to his knees to accept that not even the rats would be able or willing to accept his pleas of companionship.

No one, not a soul in _Paris_ would hear out his cry…


	3. Chapter 3: A FeatherBrained Upstart I

_**Disclaimer: **__None of the Goblins are mine, Jareth isn't mine (but I'd love his sexiness to be mine), and Erik isn't mine either. Only thing that is mine is the title name and the fact that this disclaimer which is unusually lame. If you want to sue me, all you'll get is a pair of underwear hanging off a closet door. I'd advise against it, they get angry when you move them!_

**Chapter Three: A Feather-Brained Upstart Part I**

Life was hardly fair and he was well aware of _**that **_poisoned tid-bit. Settled within his rounded throne with a decayed room before him with a group of belligerent monstrosities, goblins, destroying any hope of a moment's peace that he once might have fostered, Jareth puzzled over the thirteen hours that Sarah had been obliged. Thirteen, the number of years since her great exploits which had claimed her as the first person to complete the Labyrinth by the King's specifications….yes Sarah was now twenty six years old and he still could not escape the thought that he wished she had failed and fallen unconscious in her wild fantasies…Yes, every vengeful bone in his body screamed out that the babe should have been his but Jareth tried so in vain to dismiss it.

His fingers lightly palmed at his eyes as an exasperated sigh heaved its' way from his breast. Both his feet were settled up on the arm rest of his throne and his scowl had kept many of the goblins from coming a foot in his direction. "Dull," he bore out to his subjects in a growl of contempt that still retained a gentleman's clip. "Dull and droll…Thirteen years of mind-numbing chaos and boredom! Is it so much to wish to be entertained?!" His lip curled up and his two-toned eyes bore slits into the snickering fools' brains.

"But, my liege, we have many entertainments to be found!" One of his goblins squeaked out as though to appease the coming of a bad temper tantrum. It was then that the rest had begun to follow in their beaked—compatriot's footsteps but with far less respect for his eardrums…for they all blended together at once.

"You could kick a chicken!"

"We could go beast-baiting for your eyes!"

"You could sing!"

"_You could sing?!_ I could sing, could I?"He snarled the words in a mix of mockery and contempt as his acerbic tone denoted his even more soured mood. "Who said that preposterous suggestion? Who wishes to spend their time in the obnoxious and nauseating bog? Who wishes the very hairs of their nose to flee from the tunnels they dwell and take flight in fear of the never-ending stench? Who?! Who! Bring him forth or suffer together!"

The lines of his face were a token of severity and the brows, upturned though they were, narrowed themselves down to his mismatched hues of blue and rich umber. The glare he had visited upon each shrunken head, each wrinkled face, each abnormally disgusting subject was one that could have been compared to a viper's stare…ready to strike with the cruelty of a thousand blistering suns. It was this look that had sent the thirty four goblins to deliver him their ill mannered compatriots with one all mighty shove and a cry of "him".

"Sing should I? Sing? How presumptuous of you…you disgusting wretch. Oh yes, singing to a band of miserable half-wits is surely worthy of my time and efforts? Do you wish to displease me? Do you wish to remind me….Remind me of the babe?!"

But fate had deemed that moment to allow the crystal ball before him to give off a cry as he was about to rise from his throne. It was a sign that the world had aligned to foster him a bit more entertainment…someone whose wounds he could openly pour salt into. Someone who could taste his ire at being surrounded by misguided foolish savages. The moment the sweet misery poured into his ears, he was well distracted from any of his previous cruelties that would have been inflicted on the wretched goblin.

_I wish to belong….I wish to belong to someone._

The corners of his lips curved upward and he found both eyes intoxicated by the young man before him. Drenched in the subtle garb of old Paris, the man stood in the center of a destroyed stage. The props were covered in dust and the tears in the fabrics were obvious. All around the man, the world had been brought to shatters and his body seemed to display that he held some things in common with his scenery. The flutter of his own black garb in the wind told him that it was yet again time to take flight.

_I wish to belong….I wish to belong to someone._

"Oh, but my dear French-man," Jareth cooed to the crystal ball…his finger lightly stroking at the glass. "How you will regret that wish….Oh how you will regret it sorely."

And with laughter of the richest sadism, Jareth had been reduced to a bird and took off. His feathers touched wind and some fell from the grips of his wing. As he left the goblin filled throne room, only a 'phew' could be heard among the goblins as they watched their king take flight towards the stars.


	4. Chapter 4: FeatherBrained Upstart

_Announcement: So I've been getting some positive reviews! Thank you to all who took the time to write! It makes my day! This chapter eluded me a little bit. I didn't expect it to be so troublesome..and parts of it are still a little iffy. So give me some feedback if you will!_

**Disclaimer Time: Wow~ So I don't own these characters. If I did, I wouldn't have to scrounge for pennies in a couch! I also wouldn't have to duck-tape broken ipod-headphones! So in short, suing me would get you nothing but pennies.**

**Chapter Four: A Feathered Brained Upstart Part II**

His feathers braced through the time-stream like a falcon's feet mid skid over a babbling brook to gather trout with hooked claws. The wave of the lines that made up the borders of space and time bent beneath the wind-sweeping wing and though his feathers were light-weight it seemed that even they could present a ripple in time as they dipped when he dove.

_Time, time is a fragile thing. _He mused with an egotistical countenance even in his thoughts. _And I know how to use fragility for my own benefit….Oh do I know how to manipulate any situation to my benefit. _Had a beak been able to convey a sadist's grin…the wicked way that the lips would curl and twitch into a crude smirk, it would have accompanied his train of thought completely only to further the ugliness of his mind. The breaking of wills, the twisting of entire time frames, back-breaking agonies of a man's suffering tripled if he made even a slight of hand to beckon the world to align by his cause. He was a man to be humbled by, to respect, and to widely above all else…to fear.

His pinions dipped in the translucent and majestic material of wind and magic, like feeling a blanket of silk over exposed flesh, to soak through the down and straight through his core. The hum of magical spells, of incantations, of slight of hand, coursed into him and allowed him a moment to feel at the top of his game. He could feel the time to jump into the time stream was now….the transitional period between the in-flux of automobiles had just past before him; just as the change in costume varied dramatically at every turn people would fashion a different look. A flush of puce, a dash of red…and then the more presentable dawn of gowns and tuxedos was upon him. Yes, this was the right time…with the hiss of steam fresh in the air and horse-drawn carriages were still in their prime…where that was the mode of transportation, not some despicable looking contraption that might better be a death trap than a form of transport. He certainly would never set foot in the wreckage, it was simply uncouth for a king…but then again so was the time period by his standards. He had every intention of leaving early with out discord…and he would see to it that Erik complied with his demands as well.

_Erik…._the reason for his transcendence through time and space, that awkward man without a home who would come to know that not all wishes were good and the simplest slip of the tongue could send a man to his personal hell. He would have indulged in a smirk but it was ill fit and almost too difficult to note on a barn owl. _Oh, my poor apparition, you shall rue the day you wished upon an empty stage. _Gliding through Paris, he made up his mind abruptly and found the one building that had eluded his sights for the course of four minutes…yes, there!

The shriek of a barn owl echoed through Paris's streets, a cry of power, strength and pleasure though no man would understand it and merely try to gather his top hat in his hand less a 'foolish bird' knock it away and send it scrambling to the floor. The sight of the condemned opera house, newly abandoned due to the events following through the premiering of _Don Juan_, a show of the Phantom's infamous genius. Oh yes, how it had sent the place to ruin…no business within those giant doors for months…perhaps a year? The giant gargoyles on the stone edifices, the cold pillars and those near marble steps…a show of great architecture and a great investment gone to ruin, it was such a pity really. The sound of his wings was but a baby's breath, silent and sweet on the wind…but the wind was far fiercer in it's aggression that any of his flapping would ever show. The great doors were shoved open on the whims of a whimsical air current. Following the trail the wind allowed him, the gazing crowd around could only think to pity the poor bird that would drift into the bowels of hell, the _Opera Populaire_. The doors shut as the sleek form of a medium-sized avian snuck through the great gates and through the entrance hall…the great marble staircase and a second chandelier…marvelous crown jewels of a society gone to pot as history would dictate. The sight of crimson drapery and he knew he was on the trail…a heavy hazing of dust coated every hanging…and nearly every surface was drowning in it. It was enough to send a delicate system into a hacking frenzy but he was by no-means _delicate_-owl formed or not. Brushing past the curtain with out-stretched wings, he swept into the high ceilinged room… taking in the broken chandelier shards, the destroyed first-class seating, and the destroyed man draped his form over an empty and desolated stage. Yes, this was truly a pitiful sight and he was enjoying every minute of it…his ego would surely rejoice.

It seemed that the flutter of his wings had introduced awareness in the broken gentleman, whose body was draped in ebony. The slumped structure of a young gentleman freshly brought midway through his thirties, with his muscles relaxed, soon sat upright with his eyes dancing in a haze of awareness. His emerald spheres swept against the orchestra seating, down the far reaches of the first floor, until the balcony had become his only focus. It was obvious from the sounds of flapping and the rush of an air current that he would not go unnoticed, but then again…that was always his intention. Heavy theatrics, big entrances and he could always distract the field mouse into a game of birds of prey versus their inevitable appetizer. Settling both clawed talons into the banister and peeling at the wood until it splintered, he settled on his perch and watched.

"Oh, it's….just…a bird..."

The young man said in a gasp of near relief but that was the time Jareth chose to reveal just how wrong and duped the 'phantom', a master of disguise, could be. It was said in these hallowed walls…whispered in visions of his crystal ball, that the Phantom was no man. Based upon what Jareth saw before him, he could recognize how foolish mortals could be. There was nothing significant about a man who dwelled in illusions; in fact it just made for more irony when at last he met his better. After all, a man that had no limitations; a man that could slip through time streams, who could even practice voodoo was by far superior to a mortal pretending to be a ghost. Allowing his magic to twist through his limits, up and through his bones, weaving its' way internally until wing became hands and talons became feet, he allowed a certain elegance in the motion. He would hate to seem sloppy after all, especially to his new captive. A smirk seemed to play on his lips as they turned from a hardened beak, to a smug pair of tiers. His two toned eyes were sharp and he allowed himself to gather a suppressing glance at the young man. Strands of straw, of a darker blonde, seemed to pop out to the eye like fresh daisies would pop from the soil. The very image he presented begged for an audience to be bowing and throwing roses, but he would have scorned them all the same.

"I'm hardly _just _anything, thank you very much. I so hate to burst your bubble, though it seems someone has beaten me to the quick."

He settled himself to sit upon the rail, his hands demonstrating with ease how superior a man's ego can be. A twist of his wrist and he was holding a crystal ball, tossing it between upturned palms, twisting it across his arm…if for anything more than to demand respect. It was obvious by the way he stuck out his chest and displayed it, that he was obviously wholly proud of himself. It seemed that Erik seemed too stunned for a moment to appeal to his better nature and demands but that was just fine by the Goblin King, who relished in other's stupor.

"I believe this is where you ask in a staggered breath 'who are you'," he smirked as his eyes glowed with a strong sense of delight and mischief. Sparks were flying in his irises but it seemed that was the last thing that had caught Erik's attention.

"I know what to ask! I do not need prompting!"Sounded the appalled musician, his fingers clenched so tightly into fists that it seemed only likely he would be bleeding. "So who are you?!"

"Well first and foremost, I am now your owner. You may call me 'my liege' though, King Jareth would do splendidly." He cooed, he was obviously enjoying every moment of irritation that was flashing over Erik's face.

"Perhaps you forget where you are and just who you are talking to, monsieur. "

"Oh? I seemed to believe I was in the presences of a man who fashioned himself a ghost?"

"Allow me to fix a few flaws in your logic, sir," Erik sneered and allowed himself to ooze a calm exterior, though it was obvious that his blood was boiling. "First of all, you are in the Opera Populaire, and there is no throne in sight. Secondly, if there was a throne for all intents, it would be mine. You are no more an owner of me, than you are capable of magic. You are nothing more than a fool with new tricks up his sleeve. Why a fool you ask? For you have come to the Opera Populaire only armed with a handful of words and a superior attitude. This is my domain, and I am King here! If anyone is a slave to be found, it shall be you."

"Oh, you have me quivering with fear, Erik, what shall you use, rope or sword? I'm not often one to desire to look like sliced cheese but perhaps it's more suitable than hanging like yesterday's laundry items," he chuckled and seemed to continue rolling the crystal ball. His eyes were only intent to find it's movement, which was purposely a form of disrespect to the Opera Ghost.

"You mock me, monsieur! But I assure you, you will hang for it!'

"As much as your passion does seem to amuse me, I do have prior engagements to begin. If you could cease these antics, we can go."

"And why would I wish to go with you?!"

"Well…Wishes are a funny thing, aren't they? You can summon all your strength into the night in one wish…to belong to someone, perhaps, for example…and you might believe that no one is listening. Do you wish to know the humorous part of this situation? It is simply this…there is always someone listening. Unfortunately, you happened to gather the ear of The Goblin King, known for granting wishes," he pauses and allowed his chin to rest upon a fisted hand as the elbow decided at that moment to rest on his knee.

"You belong to me now, does this not thrill you? After all, you have no choice now. You are striped of all freedom. In fact, you are as good as my slave."

Jareth stood, at that moment balanced on the balcony, his smirk the only warning sign of what might occur. A flow of darkened lace, his body covered in a cloak of black almost like fresh feathers attached a wing. He stood at will, speculating just what the young man saw fit to do. It was obvious now that Erik was not going to succumb to his will but he was never one to despair over a challenge. It just made it far more interesting when his opponent was obstinate….

"You, monsieur, are delusional! Quite mad to think that I belong to you! I belong to no one. "

Jumping from the balcony banister, Jareth allowed himself to twist into the shape of an owl again and take flight if only for a moment's time. Jareth knew that Erik was on guard now, based on the man's stance; the tightened muscles in his back and the fierce grip of that rope in his clutches. Still, it didn't take more than a second before he was gliding before Erik, twisting internally to become a man again. The growth of new bones was always an agonizingly delicious feeling. Face to face, Jareth appraised his opponent with a skeptical eye.

"I would advise you comply, Phantom."

"I would advise you keep your hand at the level of your eyes, King."

Smirking, Jareth merely allowed his hand to grace through the air in a small gesture. The world around them, the vacant stage, the destroyed theatre, all disappeared and in its place was a crowded stone room with but one throne. The sudden change had Erik on his knees, disoriented and confused, with Jareth smirking like the devil himself.

"Welcome to the Labyrinth, the ride here can be quite jarring. Can't it?"


	5. Chapter 5: The Devil Wears Tight Pants

**Disclaimer: I do not own Jareth. I do not own Erik. I do not own the Goblins. I do not own the castle. I do not own sanity. I do not own anything but I wish I did! Even the quote 'Keep your hand at the level of your eyes' which has shown up a few times is not mine. Do not sue me. If you've been reading so far you know you won't get anything for it.**

_Announcement: So, I've been getting a lot of love from my fans. :D This makes me totally happy and just gets all of you updates faster because I get enthused! Yes, this is me whoring for more reviews XD. No, but seriously I love you guys for reading. You get Jareth pants all of you! Okay. I'm putting up a warning for language in this chapter. Don't like it, don't read it._

**Chapter Five**: The Devil Wears Tight Pants

The ground had swept from under him, the world spun around in a demented merry-go-round. Different shapes were a blur of flesh as his vision swam…those emeralds lost in the distraction of his lost stage. The moment should have been different by his account…the stage should have remained, his antagonist should have been a heap of flesh and bones on the floor with rope burns twisting at the nape of his neck. No, he wasn't dealing with anyone of mortality…that was obvious. The Opera Populaire was his playground and Erik knew that no one could penetrate that security…though they had tried. One owl-morphing pompous bastard did though. Even now the King's sadist stare was both heated and frozen over his bare flesh. The thin material of his billowing cotton shirt was penetrated by the stranger's stare but he couldn't find the balance to be embarrassed at the strength of such a look. The world spun around and around, the connection to gravity was his only source of reality. The feel of smoothed over rock on his flesh…the porcelain mask nearly slipping to shatter at his abrupt change in stance. Coughing, he mustered a weakened glare at his adversary.

"Was that necessary?"

"….No, but it was amusing, wasn't it?"The self righteous and arrogant monster settled on his perch, the words glazing over in a melodious taunt. He wanted nothing more to get up from his hands and knees, compose his dignity, and then march over and murder the self-satisfied King where he sat. The click-clack of sticks against the stone floor as hobbling dwarfs went by…the cluck of a chicken trying desperately to fly away and escape the spitballs of bored pint-sized monsters; these were the sounds that invaded his ears. It was obvious now that if this Jareth was King of anything, of course it would be diminutive little tyrants. Still, as chaos reigned over his surroundings, he could not help but notice how amused and genuinely lively the king seemed to be at his own torment. The man was settled on his strangely shaped throne, both black boots settled on the arm rests…as one of his knees was slightly inclined upwards while the other lowered itself. The very fact that his chin rested on his elbow-supported palm reinforced that strange peace and relaxation while the world around him stressed over how to please him. And here Erik kneeled before him looking every bit as lost and confused…and the pompous peacock was enjoying every moment of it!

Seething internally, Erik stood to right himself but Jareth just inclined his hand as though to tell him to stay on his knees. It was with that reasoning that Erik put all the strain and effort he could to stand…just so that it would be clear that he was slave to no man.

"….Stubborn, I see."

"Arrogant, I see," he mimicked with a disgusted twist in his features but it only made him feel a petulant child in the situation. It was almost ironic that the man practically lived in chaos and yet he was the one to feel childish before him…

"Well, I shall begin outlining your life here within the Labyrinth. "

"I will not be staying here long at all!"

The tint in the two toned eyes seemed to take the interruption to be almost a spite against him…although there was a twist of the lip to indicate that he enjoyed the challenge of verbal assaults.

"Delude yourself all you may, but do not interrupt again. You are not allowed to leave the castle walls under any circumstances," he seemed to dole out a list ticking off each item with a touch to his black leather covered digits. Finding reason to irritate the man, if only to hope that agitation would breed freedom…Erik began mumbling after him with a most aggressive tone.

"That's one rule I won't be following," he muttered but soon found sharp eyed staring at him with a stare only meant for an obvious adversary.

"What was that, _my pet_?" The very sound of the endearment term was anything but endearing to the ear drums.

"What purpose does it hold to keep me prison within these walls, monsieur? Are you cruel or simply bored? Perhaps you are lonely; given your disposition…it would be obvious why."

"…This is truly _hilarious_ that a man whom wished himself to be spared from isolation deems me lonely…bored even, Ha! Ha Ha," his eyes seemed to dart harshly to his goblins whom immediately began to chortle at the look, although terribly nervously. "Well, little slave, let's get something understood immediately, my labyrinth my rules. You may not have realized it but you have begun this game yourself…and ultimately…you will accept your position in life as my possession. There is no escape, there is no fair. Do not analyze my nature, and I will not point out that your isolation stems from what lies on your flesh. Oh yes, I know. I'm Lord and King of my castle…and this is no small time con to convince terrified and feeble minded actors to obey my every command. This is the true game and the rules are all mine…I will know your every move."

The words lacked their usual humor, and were replaced with barbs and nails grating at the back of his mind. There were almost indents left behind by the weight of his words…and yet even if the flesh itself could have been peeled from the words, he still felt justified to provoke the man. The very fact that his surroundings were so forcibly changed…the stage melting away with no prior warning or consent had set his blood to a boil.

"The rules may be yours, but the choice to follow them will always be mine," he turned daggered eyes to Jareth and seemed to settle himself on the ledge to out-look over the kingdom. "If this is a game, you haven't been playing by the rules for awhile now. You can release me now, or you can create your own greatest nemesis, and your own defeat. I suggest you gather the white flag now, monsieur and save some dignity." Still, his shoulders were sagged in an almost dejected rage…it was on of the contrasts that he could distinguish between the King and himself. The king always _seemed_ to be upright and his rage was a knife cutting at the quick as quick as an expert marksman could be…Erik's was the arsenic deep inside the enemy's cup. Erik was sure that if it was a match of wills, he would win by default…and he refused to back down in the slightest.

The black linens around his form flowed with the current of a new wind…and it was obvious that that wind was swelling from around the great Goblin Leader. The man seemed to burst with rage…his even temper was a mask for the murder he could inflict at that moment. The look in his eyes…one eye of amber and one of star fire…it was obvious that the destruction of mankind rested in those looking-glasses. The sudden stretch of his legs as they moved from their perch suggested how quickly the situation has risen from bad to worse…and Erik seemed to recall at the last minute that combating against another's will could often present a problem when he picked the wrong opponent. The swell of his pride could not stop him from standing until he fit his upright height with every intention of coming off all the stronger. Every movement Jareth made to stand, every subtle twist or turn or lift, seemed to force him to summon some courage as the man stood…hell's fire could have blazed behind him at the way he composed himself but Erik knew that standing down would doom him to his own hell.

"I wish to go home."

"It's too late for that, Erik," he nearly purred the words as he moved closer until they stood face to face and there was only a minimal amount of space between them. "Far too late for wishes, far too late to back down and escape; so explain to me, Erik, what in that world requires you to return? There was no one on that stage…not a single soul to applaud your dramatic cries…It was excellent entertainment, albeit a bit on the pathetic side, but that is beside the point. You have nothing to go back to, why fight me? You will lose. It is undeniable, Erik. Simply give in to my will and all will be as it should. "

"That has nothing to do with this game of yours, _My Liege,_" his words were spat out as they happened to be rather offensive to his tongue. "There is someone who would worry for my return…someone in Paris who would surely return to me! Unlike you, I see nothing here but a room of barbarians and uncultured swine being lead by an ogre at best," his stance matched Jareth's as the man seemed to elicit hostile waves all throughout his body language.

"Oh? Is there? Who might that be? That Diva of yours, no doubt…Miss Daee?" The way that the man's lip twisted suggested sin, but even Erik did not foresee how quickly the man's motions had come. Jareth's fist had gathered a handful of the Phantom's cloth, which all consumed him in ebony, and held him at an angle that made his feet lose contact with the ground. "Do not toy with me any longer, Erik, my patience is waning,"

"Oh yes, blame the victim for your low supply of patience to begin with. I am neither your play-mate nor your toy…you can not play puppet master with me. Return me immediately, or face the consequences," Erik said gathering his lasso within his hands at a remarkable speed.

"Erik, do come to your senses, foolish boy," Jareth seemed to whisper out though he sounded amused beyond even sanity's limits.

"You say I need to come to my senses. I have come to my senses but you have not. You forgot to keep your hands at the level of your eyes, Monsieur and now surrender your claim over me or perish in uncontrollable pain!" Erik's fingers touched against the rough edges of bristly-rope and was in near self-congratulations already, when the texture seemed to change… rather than rough and coarse…it was soft and well…rubber like. Gathering his eyes to the sight of his most notorious weapon, he found himself staring at a yellow rubber chicken in it's' place…

"Oh, I must really remember to keep my hands at the level of my eyes, or else my death is imminent, after all…rubber fowl are the most dangerous of weapons known to man…Now I trust you and I have a better understanding?" His smirk soon was unstoppable as though the man wished to make it obvious how weak and inferior he truly was.

"Oh, laugh now Monsieur, gather a good chuckle because I will leave here before night-fall! I can guarantee it! There is nothing that will stop me, not your smug face or your cheap magician tricks! I will find a way out!"

The look on Jareth's face seemed to change into its harsher core in that moment and it was not long before the man's fingertips were pinching the bridge of his nose. "I think…you have become a tad cranky over the course of the evening, Erik, and I've had my fill of it. It is time you retire," and still having the man within his grasps, though he had set him on the floor a good ten minutes before hand, he began dragging the resistant man down the hall. The screams of 'no's and foreign obscenities stole through the silence of the night.

It was at this moment that Erik knew ….Satan wore tight pants.

---( Time Break)—

All the plots of escape that he had spent in the last half an hour, all the frantic displays of great skill and intellect, and he was reduced to banging on the door and screaming like an insolent child sent to bed an hour earlier than normal. He tried all the easiest tricks in the book, but it was all no use. He would have to construct an engineered and air-tight plan but that would require at least a week in the lunatic's company. Despite his living conditions, he found that no part of him wanted to stay that long and it only fueled his frustrations…and in turn the level of obscenities he had spit in the air.

The room that he had been settled in made it obvious where all other rooms failed that this was indeed a castle of splendor and wonder. While the rest of the castle he had seen had been exclusively restricted to the throne room and the corridor, it had all been of stone and nothing he found remarkable or interesting in the slightest. He could have gathered a gander at stone back in the bowels of the Opera Populaire where the rats dwelt. Grime, itself, dwelled in those hallways but these had been clean and based on the attitude of it's' owner…it was likely by pain of death. Still, he found the bed spacious…with its velvety red curtains and matching bedding. It was the one benefit that made the room splendid…the rest of the room looked as though he had been situated in the dungeons of the castle and offered only the best quality of bedding so that he might know the luxury he might have if only he submit. The only other thing in the room was ominous at best…it was a pair of manacles chained to the stone wall…the rusted steel was within the sights of the poster bed at all times…and it became clear that this was surely to be his hell if he did not submit. It also resurfaced his desires to be free of the heavy wood door whose bolts he had to loosen with no avail. A high rising window was his only other escape route but try as he might…he could not reach it. Without the proper tools he would simply have to rely on his hands to provide escape…but that would require him to be patient…it was lucky for him he possessed the reserves to lay low and wait. It had been one of the life lessons in the Opera Populaire…he would do what he must to escape Hell with his sanity still there! That was his plan and he would certainly stick to it.


	6. Chapter 6: Devils Taunt

( This is for you, I know that it's taken so long to post and I'm sorry. College and all can really hold you back and suck the soul right out of you.)

It was a nightmare in the making, of that the French man was assured. The stone walls, block by block, a dungeon of its' own making, and he could only stand assured that he had brought this upon himself. For wishes, all wishes can be heard but not all those that answer them are kind. Not all wishes were granted by kindly fairies, or by shooting stars, no some wishes had to be granted by sadistic bastards. The longing over the months for his old domain grew strong and lingered like an infection. Home, the Opera Populaire, and all those morons that he ran circles around were far from him, and now all he had was the sounds of chickens clucking, and a gathering of noisy bumbling twits known as goblins to listen to as they scurried about and did their sadistic king's every whim. True to form, the King had set him as his slave, with shackles of iron on his wrists within a fort night of his attempted escape. The shackles had been harsh upon his wrists, but he had endured the pain. What drove him each night was the thought of her melody, her soft and sweet voice carrying over the silence…but Miss Daae was gone and all he had now was a bastard with the hair of an owl to keep him company. The way that her curls framed her angelic face in the shadows, the wedding dress framing both fragile hips, the way her fingers felt against his own pained his memory but she was the one thing that still fascinated him. The way each memory ended was bitter, and left a taste of sourness in the air as Raoul strutted away with the air of a peacock with his obsession close behind.

Every night he would stare up from the bars of his window with a new thought to the day's end, sure it had only been a few days since his third attempted escape so he had not been cuffed for long, and his French temper tantrum, though he preferred to think it his stand against the tyrant, but it was enough to make him irritated as the big fat fowl sat on his perch and patted his leg likely for the thousandth time with that damned riding crop. Each time the king was within arm's reach, he went for the throat but each time the stupid pigeon escaped his grasp. Each twist of his wrist was a game for show and each hour that he wasn't the dungeon rat, he was the toy. The pretty toy to dress as he pleased and show off however he wished….and for that Erik's teeth were grinding to a vicious level, his brows spiked down, and every bit of his never-ending rage was set to be released.

"C'mon, the master wishes to sees you. "A voice came through the barred door before the little demon opened the door, holding his taunting stick with sharp and pointed teeth. A glare was set upon the little bastard before he strutted with what little honor he possessed. Each thought another wish to escape, but as the shackles reminded him…running wasn't wise.

"Yes, _my liege_," There was that fat pigeon on his throne, hitting his leather boot with the riding crop again. Up and down, up and down, always the same act and always that dulled expression on his face. For months this was the act that would await him as he entered the throne room…which was really nothing short of a pig sty, or rather chicken sties with the way that animals were just allowed to be loose. It was the most barbaric of kingdoms he had been within.

"Entertain me, Erik, Now."

Grinding his teeth together, the Phantom snorted in utter disgust. "No."

"Do not anger me. Now do as I say_."_

"Entertain yourself, monsieur."

"Come now, _my pet, _you are starting to irritate."

"Good, perhaps I shall get the point across, no?"

"Do not defy me, now do as I say and come here at once."

Standing perfectly still, the masked man did nothing of what the King said, for he had no respect at all from the sadistic monster. Those at the Opera populaire who thought him that description would have thought of the King as the devil himself. It was when he stood with his jaw defiantly out that he caught the nod that the King, his great pompous lord himself, had given. And without a second's hesitation, the goblin with the taunting stick smacked the viciously spiked device at his rear, prompting a cry of foreign curses and tears to brim from the corner of his eyes.

"I trust there will be no more tantrums of this nature, Erik? I do grow so tired of it, my _dear_ apparition."

Glaring daggers at Jareth, Erik shuffled his feet much like a young child avoiding a scolding and his irritation mounted. He would not be humiliated in such a fashion! Snorting in clear rage, the noble gentleman sat at the stair to the throne at Jareth's feet. The way of his seating was little more than the classic stomp-seat of a very irritated person, and it had come back to bite him hard and cause him to wince! The man had some nerve, to order him about! Leather clad fingers grasped at the side of his face and petted him gently and slowly.

"That's a good pet," Jareth murmured every word a sinister stab at the Phantom's pride.

"You've had your fun, monsieur, let me go back to Paris."

"And end my game, I think not."

"This is just to boost your ego, you overfed pigeon!"

"And if it is, that does not give you much of an option, now does it? Surely upsetting me so greatly will only have worse results for you…or have you not yet met those fates, my dear Phantom?"Jareth smirked, tapping leather gloved fingers onto the lovely shackles at his pets wrists before removing them with a key he had removed from a satin pocket.

"Now, I cannot by so bad if I am opting you freedom, now can I?"He practically purred, a dark and twisted, even sinister look coming from his two toned hues.

"No, what you are is psychotic; you have given me freedom and yet kept me further in your enslavement. This is nothing more than a game to you, monsieur, as you have said numerous times but I do not take kindly to these games. It is but a child taunting an ant hill, and soon you too Monsieur will be bitten."

"Now, now, come Erik, do not bore me so with more of this talk," Jareth's finger touched at Erik's lips, silencing him from any French curse that dared exit from the masked man. "I have a fun surprise for you, my pet, so much fun…."


End file.
